


Just Right

by completelyhopeless



Series: Shirt Theft [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Community: comment_fic, F/M, Gen, Pre-Canon, could be taken as friendship or more, i think, things are mostly implied again
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-23
Updated: 2014-11-23
Packaged: 2018-02-26 17:06:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2659766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/completelyhopeless/pseuds/completelyhopeless
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Natasha noticed something about men's shirts. They were softer and more comfortable than her own. Clint's, in particular, were the most appealing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just Right

**Author's Note:**

  * For [scribblemyname](https://archiveofourown.org/users/scribblemyname/gifts).



> I have this shirt that was my dad's when he was a teenager or in his early twenties, and I swear that thing is the softest, most comfortable shirt I own.
> 
> That and this prompt: _[Marvel Cinematic Universe, Natasha Romanoff/Clint Barton, wearing his shirts](http://comment-fic.livejournal.com/574608.html?thread=80301712#t80301712)_
> 
> A fic was inevitable.
> 
> As for the title, well, I had _Goldilocks and the Three Bears_ going through my head when Natasha was testing her theory, and it was all I could do not to put it in the fic. The title was a compromise because I lost to my own brain.

* * *

For some reason Natasha couldn't figure out, men's shirts were softer than women's and a lot more comfortable. She did not know if it was the fabric, though she would have thought it wouldn't be because the image of a woman was supposed to be soft and feminine, so why was it that men's shirts were appealing? They were even... cozy. 

She had first noticed this on a mission gone bad. She'd been injured, and Clint had given her one of his shirts because her suit was a mess. Plenty of fabrics could irritate wounds like that, but his shirt was smooth, didn't make her cuts worse or slow down their healing.

She never gave the shirt back, but after that mission, she'd gone out and bought herself a package of shirts like his, same brand and size. She'd thought it only practical, but they lacked the same feel. She didn't find them as comfortable as she had that one of his, and she was half convinced that it had been a delusion brought on by the minor infection she must have had until they got stuck in the rain.

The shirt he let her borrow that day felt like the first, even if it was blue instead of black.

She kept it, too.

She tried her own men's shirts again, but even after several washings with the same detergent she knew Clint used—one without any perfumes or dyes, leaving her to wonder exactly what caused them to smell the way they did because Clint didn't wear cologne or aftershave—they still didn't feel like his.

Next mission, she didn't pack anything for herself, and Clint kept frowning at her, but she got two more shirts out of the deal, adding to the variety of colors in her wardrobe. She threw out the ones she'd bought that would never be like his, and over the course of the next few months, managed to acquire other styles to test her theory about men's shirts.

They were _all_ more comfortable when they were his.

* * *

“That's my shirt.”

“So?” Natasha asked, leaning back in her chair and flipping through the mission briefing again, bored. She didn't know why Coulson was late, and that should worry her because Coulson was never late, but she wasn't. Not yet.

“Give it back.”

She looked up at Clint. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me. You've been stealing my shirts and it has to stop. I'm running out of clothes to wear.”

“I doubt half the female agents will complain about that." She paused, waiting for a moment to get the timing right as she added, "Some of the men won't, either.”

“Not funny,” Clint muttered, moving close to her. “I want my clothes back. I'm not kidding. If you want shirts, you can buy your own.”

“I did,” she said, shrugging. “It wasn't the same.”

He stopped, leaning back against the conference table and blinking as he took in her words. He seemed to be picking his words with care, as though navigating through a mine field. “You... want shirts that feel like mine?”

“Why shouldn't I?” Natasha asked, tempted to smile. “You do all the hard work breaking them in.”

“You want them... broken in?”

“Yes.”

Clint folded his arms over his chest. “Why do I suddenly get the feeling that's not the only thing you like having broke in? Or maybe not the only thing you're planning on breaking in?”

That time she _did_ grin, giving him a Cheshire smile before returning to her briefing.


End file.
